


Could you be happy?

by ArbitrarilyImportant



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M, It's short but I like it :), Mal's dead (whoops), My first time writing for this series!, Post-Ruin and Rising, who's in denial about their emotions? not these guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 19:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11214954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArbitrarilyImportant/pseuds/ArbitrarilyImportant
Summary: Alina left, after Mal died and Aleksander died and she lost her powers, to search for a way to return the sun to her hands.Now, she returns.





	Could you be happy?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first time writing for the _Grisha_ universe, but I hope you like it~

It was long past nightfall, heavy rain dampening all sound, but light still blazed in the dusty confines of the office, illuminating a solitary figure. His table was piled high with books and scrolls, fetched from the farthest reaches of the kingdom and wherever his naval might may reach. Golden hair fell into tired eyes as the king pulled yet another stack towards himself.

“Saints. You’re in love with her.”

Nikolai hadn’t reacted when Genya entered the room, nor when she came to stand beside him – only continued pouring over one of the Little Palace’s innumerable books on Grisha power. When she spoke, however, he stiffened, and the manuscript crinkled beneath his gloves.

“And what, pray, gives you that idea?” Notably, he didn’t ask to whom she was referring, nor deny the accusation.

“I thought you might, before it all, but I was never sure.” Genya’s voice was as steady as ever, as she perched lightly on the edge of the desk. “But this research – you’re not doing it for her powers, are you? You’re doing it because she wants them back. For her.”

The young king, barely two years in his post, had never had so tired an expression than the one he turned on Genya. “What of it?” he asked. “Alina doesn’t care for me, she never did. The best I can do for her now is help her recover what she lost.”

“She never – really, Nikolai,” she sighed, “you are daft. You and David, you should begin a club. Get Tamar to join.” As always, Genya’s expression softened at mention of her husband.

Nikolai scoffed and pushed away from the heavy table. “Be that as it may – I am supremely loveable, of course – I recall us having had this conversation before. Multiple times. I hope it’s not the only reason you came?”

Rolling her eyes, Genya got to her feet and replied, “Zoya and I were delivered a message in the meeting earlier. The one you were too busy to attend?”

It had been one of the still innumerable meetings about the ongoing effects of the civil war – a few remaining insurgent cells, rogue Grisha. Surviving volcra.

Nikolai’s eyes met hers – one blazing eye, one embroidered patch. Genya had, in recent months, begun wearing her hair in elaborate knots atop her head; she would no longer wear it long and lose, giving her scars some semblance of cover, but would display them proudly. _Let them stare,_ she had once whispered to David with a smile. _They’ll see what I survived, and they will fear me._  
She confronted her scars, but his, he still hid. Likely would forever.

“The message?”

She offered him a grin and withdrew a letter from the sleeve of her kefta; a small, stained envelope, with handwriting that made his heart leap to see. Genya placed it on the table in front of him, then turned and left the room with a swish of her skirts – purposefully not seeing the smile that played on Nikolai’s lips, as he lifted the letter with a delicate hand.

\--

It was weeks later, the candle lit discussion carefully pushed from his mind, when Nikolai sat in the Little Palace’s war room. A debate raged in front of him, generals and Grisha arguing if an incursion into Fjerda was worth the danger of a rescue mission.

“They are our own _people_ – our soldiers! Surely you can spare a Grisha or two –.”

“It’s not about _sparing_ ,” snapped a Heartrender, “it’s about risk. All our most skilled are already deployed, and we’re not about to send out untrained students.”

“Especially for a few _otkazat’sya_ ,” muttered a Tidemaker.

The general gaped for a moment, before seeming to regain his belligerence. “The only reason they were there in the first place was to track down another nest of your witches -!”

_“Witches?”_

The room dissolved once more into chaos, First and Second armies yelling at each other from opposite sides of the table. Barely a glance was afforded him when Nikolai raised himself from his chair and walked towards the back of the room. The walls were still hung with the animal-hide maps of the Darkling’s reign – he could have had them removed, but they were useful. _And she loves them, added a snide voice in the back of his mind_ , quickly dismissed.

Nikolai began to study a depiction of the northern border, around the area where the missing party had last been in contact, when he saw it: the edge of a map moving forward, as though disturbed by a gust of wind. When a quick glance around the room confirmed that no one was watching, he moved to the section of the wall in question and tapped his fingers against it questioningly.

The wall tapped back.

Turning quickly, and raising his voice to be heard above the din, he said, “Please! I have heard each of your concerns, and don’t believe any more of… _this_ will solve our problems or save our soldiers.” The room quietened as the debaters turned to look at the king. “I have much to consider before the day is done, and I am sure each of you have your own duties to attend. You’re excused.”

It was another quarter hour before the room cleared, among much grumbling and glares. Several men and women loitered to ensure their specific concerns were heard by Nikolai, and he hurried to dismiss them as quickly as possible, unable to stop himself sparing the back wall a glance every other sentence.

Finally, as the last councillor left, he leaned a hand against a chair, massaging his temple. “You can come out now,” he called quietly.

The aforementioned wall – which was, of course, the entrance to a secret passage – opened without a creak. It was the method by which Nikolai would meet with his less _official spies_ : mercenaries or pirates who believed the king was partnered with Sturmhond. “Report.”

An amused voice rang out, “Eight months, and that’s how you say hello?”

Nikolai’s heart jumped as he looked up to a smiling – travel worn and weary, holding a pack on a shoulder and a sword at her waist, but _smiling_ – Alina Starkov.  
After the battle of the Fold, where Alina lost her tracker and her powers, her smile had been a rare sight; she had passed ghost-like through the corridors of the palace, barely eating or sleeping. More than once, Nikolai had seen her twisting her fingers through the sunlight from a high window, an expression of intense longing upon her face.

The morning after her supposed funeral, she had disappeared, only a note left in her place. Alina had returned to Os Alta only twice since then, for a handful of days each time. The purpose of her journeys was never discussed, but was obvious – she searched for a way to return her powers, or at least an explanation for their disappearance.

Upon seeing her – _Alina! She was back!_ ¬Nikolai’s hands dropped to his sides, before he crossed the distance between them in a few strides and swept her into a crushing embrace. For a moment, she stiffened at the contact, but almost immediately returned the gesture, squeezing her arms around him and pressing her face to his shoulder.

“I can’t stay long,” she said into the fur of his collar. “But I was close, and I had to see you.”

His heart stuttered at the admission ( _could she feel it, beating so hard in his chest?_ ), and he leaned back, staring intently at her face, certain a ridiculous grin was on his own. “Couldn’t stay away from me, could you?” Alina snorted and raised a brow, and he continued in a much quieter voice. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She slid a hand to his chest for just a moment, leaving a burning trail in its wake, then stepped backwards, letting her bag slide to the ground. For a moment, it seemed as though she would say something, but only shook her head and smiled. Gesturing to the table behind him, she said, “I’m surprised you lasted that long. I would have started yelling ages before.”

Nikolai could only laugh. It had been a long time since he had just laughed.

\--

Rumours abounded in the Palace when the king called for an emergency meeting of the Triumvate in his private quarters. Of course, any tales of impending war or fantastic discoveries would pale beside the truth of the matter, of the most powerful in the kingdom getting drunk on kvas with a saint thought long dead.

There were exclamations and hugs when Zoya entered the chambers; laughter and dramatically-overplayed-shock when Genya arrived. The fire burned low as the evening progressed, the four warmed more by alcohol than flames. Their conversation was initially dominated by laughter, discussing the absurdities of running a country; Alina began to reveal tales of her journeys, of strange magic and crows with blue eyes. She seemed glad to be able to talk of it.

The evening turned sombre as the four began reminiscing, of old times and those who had been lost – always carefully skirting the topic of a certain orphan.  
They raised toasts, to the fallen and the survivors and to the prosperity of Ravka. To hope. To the sacrificed. “To Aleksander,” whispered Alina, and none of the others asked of whom she was speaking. They all had their secrets.

Hours after dusk, Genya and Zoya exchanged glances and stood to leave, claiming the walk to the Little Palace would be bad enough in the winter night, and that they didn’t want to be trapped in an oncoming storm. Alina was to be housed in a currently empty guest wing of the main Palace, and so let them leave, kissing their cheeks and promising to speak the next day.

“Don’t you dare just leave like last time,” warned Zoya, “or I’ll pin you to the ceiling and keep you here forever.”

There was more laughter, but Alina did promise – a Zoya with flushed cheeks and loose hair and a smile like that was not to be trifled with.

\--

Alina and Nikolai sat in overstuffed chairs, facing the dying embers. A cold wind howled against the window, and she shivered, remembering too many nights in the harsh winters. She was grateful for this respite, even if it was not to last.

Finally, Nikolai spoke. “Have you found anything?”

He looked to Alina, who was staring into her empty glass with a wry smile. “I thought you were all too scared to ask.” She met his gaze, eyes flashing. “Tell me – all of it, all of … us. It was all because of my powers, right?”

_There’s an ‘us’?_ Nikolai wanted to ask. It would be so easy, to skirt the conversation, diffuse it, continue to ignore the pangs in his chest. But the alcohol, it conspired against him, recruiting his heart as a double agent, so that the words that actually came out were, “At first? Of course. But later, when I came to know you, your sainthood was just an added bonus.” He looked away, into the cloud covered night sky. “And then not a consideration at all.

“Why do you ask?”

His only response was a rustle of fabrics and a sigh. Glancing back, he saw Alina leaning into her chair, eyes closed.

He shook his head and continued. “But you were never mine to want, Alina, and I wouldn’t demand of you what you couldn’t give. Right now, if I dared, I’d ask you if you could be happy here with me, but I can’t presume to be sufficient replacement for what you’ve lost.”

He sat there for a while, then finally stood, and retrieved a blanket from his bed in the next room, taking care to move silently, so as to not disturb the sleeping woman. He tucked it around her shoulders, ignoring the tightness in his throat – and was stopped from leaving by a hand around his wrist.

Alina wasn’t looking at him, in favour of staring at her hand as though it acted without permission. For a handful of moments, the room was silent, save for the sound of Nikolai’s heartbeat in his ears. Then, with a deep breath, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve found a lot of things. Old libraries, Saints’ tales, whispers of _merzost_. I’m not completely certain, but – but I think I understand what happened. Or at least I have an idea.”

She met his eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same as before, if my powers’ll come back. But I do think – I know – that I could be happy here. With you.”

Nikolai found he had no response beyond an opening of his mouth (a gape, if we’re to be honest, but such an undignified word cannot be applied to a king). He raised a hand towards her face, not daring to touch her – then Alina pulled him forward by his wrist and pressed her lips to his.

After a moment of shock, he laughed against her mouth and returned he kiss, pressing her closer to him by a hand on her back. He could feel her lashes against his cheek, taste the whiskey and kvas on her tongue. They kissed until both were out of breath, forced to pull away or suffocate ( _not that I would have minded_ , he thought).

Alina stood, and cupped his face between her hands, then snorted. “This’ll be a problem, I think. Only about half the country saw my funeral.”

Nikolai laughed, and gave her a peck on the nose. “Not at all – what's more Saint-like than the _daughter of Ravka_ miraculously returning from the dead?”

Alina groaned, and punched his shoulder, and then returned his kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> How did I do with their characterisations? Do you like it?  
> I know it's very dialogue-y and doesn't have very much description, but let me know what you think! :*


End file.
